On the Side of the Angels
by Vanessa Sgroi
Summary: This was my entry in the SFTCOLARS August Ultimate Limpage contest.  Screams rip through the night, and the Winchester brothers find themselves in a desperate situation with lives on the line.


_Disclaimer__: I don't own anything related to Supernatural. Just having a little fun with the boys._

On The Side of the Angels

It was the screaming that woke him. For the briefest of moments, Sam Winchester thought it was merely the remnants of yet another mother of all nightmares. Then, with a start, he realized that the screaming he was hearing was real, and it was coming from somewhere outside the motel. He jackknifed into a sitting position just as Dean came awake in the opposite bed.

"What the hell's going on?" Dean mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"I don't know, but whatever it is, it sounds bad," came Sam's low and worried reply.

Both men simultaneously threw back the covers and stood.

Sam froze. "Hey, you smell that?"

Dean looked at him quizzically for a split second before he said, "Shit, that's smoke."

Without further thought, the Winchester brothers each tugged on their discarded jeans and raced outside. And into a whirlwind of chaos. The night sky was red with fire; black smoke eddied and blew in the brisk breeze. A number of people in various stages of undress were milling about, shock and horror plastered on their faces as they stared at the back portion of the two-story motel which was engulfed in flames. The brothers slipped into the crowd. Both noting that as of yet, no sirens sounded in the distance.

"My kids! Oh, my God—my kids! My babies—they're trapped in the room!" the distraught wail sounded above the greedy roar of the fire.

No one in the crowd made a move forward and the woman's pleading grew louder. "Please, please somebody help them!"

Sam and Dean looked at each other. Without exchanging a word, they charged ahead through the crowd to search out the frantic woman. Finally spying her, a 30-something brunette wrapped in a long yellow terry cloth robe, they raced to her side.

"What room?" demanded Dean.

Halfway to hysterical, the woman couldn't quite process the imposing man's demand. She stared at him but said nothing.

The elder Winchester repeated his demand, his voice far harsher than he intended. He could feel invisible bands of pressure constrict around his chest as the snap and crackle of the fire assaulted his ears.

The brunette flinched and started to back away.

Sam reached out and gently took her by the shoulders. "Ma'am, it's okay. We just want to help. How many kids and what room are they in?"

Staring into the taller man's face, she finally stuttered, "T-t-two. They—they're in 223."

The brothers were on the move almost before the last digit left her mouth. They tore up the corner staircase and down the concrete walkway, nearing the room and the voracious blaze with each pounding barefoot step.

Finally reaching Room 223, Dean ran his hands up and down the door feeling for excessive heat. When he didn't find any, he turned sideways and rammed his shoulder into the door, wincing at the impact. The door held fast. He was just about to try again when Sam pushed him out of the way.

"I got it." Sam backed up a few steps and then forcefully jammed his foot into the door near the handle, gasping at the jarring impact of bare foot meeting cheap wood. "Shit, that hurt!" he growled, but barreled forward regardless. Dean flew into the room right behind him.

It was dark except for the ominous reddish glow emanating outside the window on the opposite side of the room. Gray smoke churned and wavered around the ceiling, sinking lower with each passing minute. Crouching low and moving toward the bed, the young hunter felt his feet tangle in something unseen, and he was suddenly falling. Unable to avoid hitting the floor, Sam twisted and felt his head strike the headboard as he went down. Swearing, he regained his feet and shook off the dizziness that assailed him.

"You okay?" Dean yelled before erupting into a fit of coughing.

"Yeah," the one word was all Sam could manage. He leaned forward and blindly felt around on the bed, searching franticly for the form of a small child. Try as he might, Sam couldn't locate anyone. His brother, who had moved farther into the room to check the closet and bathroom, wasn't having any more success.

The smoke and heat grew in rapid increments, pressing against both men with marked urgency. Rough coughs erupted from their mouths with intensifying frequency.

Sam dropped closer to the floor and crawled around the bottom of the bed. His hand met with warm flesh that he was quick to determine was a small foot. Pulling the young child toward him, Sam picked him up and crawled toward Dean.

"Here—take him," Sam pushed the little boy into Dean's arms. "Take him and go."

Dean Winchester froze, the sense of deja vu so strong that for a moment he was four years old again and hearing his father's long ago words pingponging around in his head.

"Dean, go!" The gruff command in Sam's voice broke Dean's fleeting paralysis, and he jogged from the room, cradling the small treasure in his arms.

Satisfied that his brother was carrying the one child to safety, Sam continued his search, crawling on his hands and knees. His coughing increased and unceasing tears tracked down his face from the thickening smoke, leaving wet trails in the soot. Vertigo from his earlier fall was also making navigation difficult. Just putting one knee in front of the other was becoming challenging. To Sam's dismay, his renewed search proved fruitless, and he knew he was running out of time. He slowly circled around and began to inch toward the door, breath heaving from both exertion and a crushing sense of defeat. Suddenly, the dizziness overwhelmed him, and he pitched forward, face planting into the brown shag carpeting.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Dean ran. He ran down the walkway to the stairs. Ran away from the fire. Ran away from his brother who was once again far too close to an inferno. His every instinct was screaming against the action, but he forced his feet to continue forward.

At the bottom of the stairs, he handed the little boy over to one of the other motel patrons. In some distant part of his consciousness, he realized he heard sirens drawing close and felt the tiniest modicum of relief. "Get him to the paramedics," he rasped. A deep, rattling cough rumbled from his chest as he turned away and started ascending the stairs. Having transferred the little boy into someone else's care, his only focus now was the need to get back to his brother.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Sam's arms trembled as he tried to push himself up. His breathing was harsh as the toxic smoke and heat starved his lungs of oxygen. The roar of the fire suddenly seemed to fall silent and black dots swirled in front of his eyes. Sam managed to move forward only a couple of inches before his arms gave out, the black dots coalesced, and awareness faded.

Visibility in the motel room was now non-existent. Dean plunged into the room and was forced to rely more on touch than sight. "Sam? Sammy?" Dean began to cough as he sucked in a lungful of hot, abrasive smoke. Tears immediately formed from the grit and rolled down his face.

After several minutes of blind searching, Dean's hand finally connected with a hard, warm—too warm—body. "Sam?" His head was beginning to spin a little as the heat pushed his body closer to dehydration. Dismay slammed through him when he realized his little brother was unresponsive if not unconscious. Dean rolled Sam to his back. Hooking his hands under each arm, he heaved backward, attempting to slide his brother across the floor. The taller man barely moved an inch.

Dean knew their time was up. It was get out now or don't get out at all. Folding Sam to a sitting position and holding him there, Dean gained his feet. With fierce concentration and sheer adrenalin-powered strength, he heaved Sam up and onto his shoulders in a firemen's hold. Sparing a final glance at the huge hungry tongues of flame that were now beginning to devour the ceiling of Room 223, Dean thought he saw a demonical face form in the roiling red and orange conflagration. Its mouth was an open maw of rage and hunger and the words "S-s-s-so closssse," were a maniacal hiss that reverberated over and above the roar. The elder Winchester shuddered and turned away, staggering out the door, again carrying a treasure—a much heavier treasure.

Crossing the threshold into the night, the last of his strength gone, Dean managed only a half dozen steps before he sank to his knees. As gently as possible, he laid Sam down. Unable to regain his feet, Dean stayed where he was. Distant sounds buzzed in his ears, but confusion reigned. Darkness edged his vision, and then he knew no more.

_(SN) (SN) (SN)_

Bright light pierced his eyelids, and Dean groaned. Blinking against a gritty, sandpaper feeling, he opened his eyes. Beneath a mask, the cool tang of oxygen soothed his irritated lungs. Squinting, he turned his head and realized he was lying flat out on a patch of grass and a female paramedic was hovering over him with a penlight. He flinched when the paramedic thumbed his right eyelid up and directed the light straight in his eye. When she finished, he sighed and closed his eyes, silently inventorying his various aches and pains. His chest, back, and arms throbbed in time with his head.

_What the hell happened? Where's Sam?_

His mind cleared a little more and suddenly everything came back in a rush. Screaming, fire, the little boy, Sam.

"Sam!" He reached up to pull the oxygen mask from his face, desperate to call for his brother.

The paramedic caught his hand and forced it down. "No, leave that there. You need it."

"No! No! Where's Sam?" Dean's cries were muffled by the mask. He struggled against the hands and tried to sit up.

The paramedic pushed on his shoulders, urging him to stay down. "Hey, calm down."

When Dean's struggles only increased, the paramedic said, "Are you looking for the other guy? The one you carried out?" It was an educated guess. She knew she was right when the frenzied worry sparked brighter in his eyes.

Chest heaving with exertion, Dean nodded and gasped, "Yeah. Brother."

"He's doing okay. He's right over there with my partner," the paramedic pointed to her left.

Dean turned his head, wanting—no, needing—to catch sight of his brother. He relaxed slightly when he saw Sam, his long and lanky body similarly stretched out on the grass with an oxygen mask in place.

" 's okay?"

The pleading look on his face convinced the medic to answer honestly, and she nodded. "Smoke inhalation, some first degree burns. Only slightly worse than you due to that bump on his head," she smiled at Dean, "though he may need a haircut. Some of that lovely hair of his is a bit singed from the heat."

The thought made Dean laugh, which set off another round of irritating coughing and hacking.

"Listen, just lay back and relax. We'll be heading to the hospital soon."

Dean wanted to argue—to protest a trip to the hospital—but the persistent buzzing in his ears had returned, and he hadn't the strength to will it away. As his eyes drifted closed, he felt the phantom weight of his brother resting across his shoulders lift thanks to the knowledge that Sam was going to be all right.

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Much later, as dawn was barely a glow on the horizon, Sam heard the door to his hospital room open. He was reluctant to open his heavy-lidded eyes. Curiosity won out, however, and he forced them open hoping to see the familiar face of his older brother. He was granted his wish. Dean stood before him, his face, chest, and arms red beneath the layer of soot. Sam knew he looked pretty much the same except for the bandage decorating his forehead.

"Dean," he croaked in a smoke-roughened voice.

"Hey, Sammy. How ya feelin'?"

"'m okay. Whopper of a headache." Sam fiddled with the annoying nasal cannula under his nose, trying to pull it off.

Dean slapped his hand away. "Stop that," he ordered, his voice no less gravelly than Sam's, "You still need it."

"Uh huh. And I bet you do too."

"Me? Nah, I'm good," Dean couldn't stifle the bout of coughing following his words.

Sam rolled his eyes, then winced a little as he shifted position. The burns were only first degree but were still quite uncomfortable. "Dean," he started, his face grim, "the kid . . . the other kid . . . I . . . I couldn't find . . ."

Dean interrupted his brother before he could get too worked up. "Sam, it's okay—"

"No . . . I let him d—"

"Damn it, Sammy, will you just shut up and let someone else talk for a second." Dean winced, regretting the yell as his sore throat protested. He continued in a softer voice. "He's okay, Sam. He got out somehow. No one knows how but the other boy got out. And the one you did pull from the room is gonna be fine." He stopped, slightly breathless.

"We," growled Sam.

"What?"

"The kid _**we**_ pulled from the room."

Dean shifted from foot to foot. "Okay, yeah, the kid we pulled from the room is gonna be fine."

The Winchester brothers were quiet for a few moments as the impact of the whole ordeal sank in. The tense quiet was broken soon enough when Dean started chuckling.

Puzzled, Sam rasped, "What's so funny?"

"The paramedic at the scene—well, she said you might need a haircut since your hair's a little singed."

"What!" Sam's hand flew up to feel his hair, the ends of which did feel a little crunchy.

"So that's what I have to do to get you to get a haircut, huh? Bit drastic don't you think, Sammy?"

"Ah, man . . ."

"You know—I think you should go for the bald look. I mean, seriously dude, it IS the in thing now. You could finally look all manly like . . . like Captain Piccard," Dean mused, "or . . . or knowing you, you could end up looking like Mr. Clean."

"You are so not funny!"

Dean barely dodged the hospital pillow that shot like a missile in his direction.

The End


End file.
